


Fabulous Grape

by andachippedcup



Series: Domestic Belle [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andachippedcup/pseuds/andachippedcup





	Fabulous Grape

Apparently their bedroom is ‘stuffy’ and ‘outdated’.

She tells him this as she drags him to the local hardware store, insisting that a fresh coat of paint is exactly what’s in order to ‘ _breathe some life_ ’ into the old room.

When he mutters a response about the room seeming to have plenty of life the night before, she blushes and smacks him on the arm, murmuring something about them being in public. He just grins and follows after her obediently, pleased to at least have gotten a slight rise out of her. It’s always fun, he’s found, to make such comments in public and then watch her turn tomato red.

But they have a purpose on this shopping trip and she’ll not be distracted by him and his dirty little suggestions or his reflections on last night’s lovemaking.

No. Belle is here for paint. Paint that, apparently, is  _crucial_  to their bedroom becoming a warm and inviting place.

He really doesn’t see the need for it; it’s clearly inviting enough if the both of them can be together there, but what his little Belle wants, his little Belle gets. And so he allows her to drag him by the hand to the paint aisle.

As he’s standing before the massive wall littered with paint swatches though, he’s beginning to wonder what he’s gotten himself into.

——-

They leave the store a solid one hundred and seven minutes after arriving.

He knows, because he’s counted every single minute as Belle went back and forth between paint colors while he damned to the deepest depths of hell the bastard that thought making twenty six different shades of cream was a good idea.

Belle can’t make up her mind. She doesn’t even know if she wants a neutral color or a red or green or blue. ‘Latte’ or ‘Soulful Blue’? ‘Kimono Violet’ or ‘Smoky Salmon’? ‘Kendal Green’ or ‘Tidewater’?

So instead, she settles for taking a stack of swatches home to ‘mull over’ so they can have some time to think on this  _very important_  decision.

——-

Normally, the idea of sitting on their bed, her sprawled out in front of him with a glass of wine in hand would be appealing to him.

However, the mountain of paint swatch samples spread out between them might as well be a magical barrier backed up with cement, brick and a twenty mile wide moat. Because there is  _no way_  he’s getting past these swatches and to her, which is a crime, really because he’s betting she’d taste damn good on his tongue with that Chardonnay fresh on her lips.

But no. Instead, they’re ‘mulling’. Somehow, he’d thought it would be a more entertaining process. It mostly consists of Belle, sipping sweetly at her wine and holding up one color after the other and comparing how the color looks against their furniture and the floor and the rug.

These are apparently important considerations to make when selecting a paint color; it must work well with the room, she informs him. His standards, however, are much different than hers. He really doesn’t care how the rug looks with the wall color, or how the furniture matches it. His standard actually has nothing to do with the inanimate contents of the room.

For that reason, he plucks up a blue swatch (‘Bracing Blue’, apparently) and holds it against her face, nodding in appreciation.

Belle, distracted by the creams again ( _‘I like Believable Buff but it is rather drab’_ ) doesn’t notice he’s doing this right away. When she sees his hand and the swatch by her face though she stops and glances to the swatch.

“Blue? I was thinking that earlier but then blue is supposed to be a sad color, isn’t it? And I want our bedroom to be happy.” She comments, sipping at her wine again and completely missing the hungry look in his eyes.

“I rather like blue.” He comments, still holding the swatch up against her face, but this time brushing her hair away so he can see the color against her pale, smooth skin.

“Oh stop it.” She chides. “We’re not picking colors of clothes for me to dress in; we’re picking a color for the  _room_ , silly.” She smiles, batting away his hand.

“Dearie, my only standard is that whatever color we choose  _must_  look good on you.” He comments, to which she frowns, her nose wrinkling in confusion in that way he finds so darling.

“What?” She doesn’t understand,  _bless her_.

“I don’t particularly care how the vanity will look against the wall,” he comments with a wicked little grin, “but I  _do_  care how  _you_  will look against it.”

Really, his only consideration to take into account is how the walls will look when he’s got her pushed up against them, those blue eyes of hers staring into his soul.

It’s a good standard, in his opinion.

Belle, however, seems to disagree.

“You are incorrigible.” She comments, once more batting the blue swatch away. “You dirty old man, you.” She smirks, sipping at her wine to give her mouth something to do. She won’t let on to him, but he’s tempting her right now and this painting business really is important to her so she needs to focus and get a color selected. She can worry about jumping him later.

——-

When he goes to work the next morning, she meets him at the front door as always, his brown paper bag containing his lunch in hand.

She’s also got four of those foul little swatches in hand. Damn little moment ruiners.

“What do you think? ‘Relic Bronze’, ‘Honorable Blue’, ‘Red Bay’ or ‘Basil’?” She queries, pointing to each swatch in turn.

 _Oh seven fucking hells_.

“Sorry dearie, I’m late, go with whatever you prefer.” He fumbles, pecking her on the forehead and springing out the front door as fast as his weary old body can go.

 _That was a close one_.

He really can’t be held accountable for decisions like this that she finds so important but which, to him, seem utterly inconsequential. Who knows what kind of landmine he might really be stepping on if he were to say ‘Relic Bronze’? And what if it was all a test and he failed by picking ‘Red Bay’?

No, no.

Gold’s an old dragon and he’s gotten to be old by being clever. He knows better than to play these kinds of dangerous games with a brilliant little nymph like his Belle.

——-

It’s late evening before he comes home (given his hasty exit, he’s seen fit to busy himself at the shop instead of going home for tea). When he opens the front door, he’s pleasantly surprised to hear the sound of her humming.

Though usually, by this hour, she’s in the kitchen preparing her meal, tonight it sounds as if she’s upstairs.  _Odd_.

“Belle? I’m home, love.” He announces, half afraid he’ll be ignored or reprimanded for his behavior this morning. Instead he hears the humming stop and some moving around.

“I’m upstairs! Love, come see this!” She’s happy.  _Entirely too happy_.

He ascends the stairs with care; not just because he’s got a bum knee and it hurts going up them, but because goodness only knows what kind of evil-disguised-as-nice-fluffy-things she’s got upstairs waiting for him.

The humming has resumed so he follows the sound of her voice as he makes it to the landing. She’s in their room.  _Naturally_. He gulps a little and makes his way to the doorway, half expecting to be blown back by a good swift kick or a chucked pillow (the decorative ones are heavy enough to be decent projectiles).

Instead, he finds himself staring at his wife clad in nothing but her lacy underthings.

Were he able to tear his eyes away from the sight, he would notice that their room is in utter disarray, with everything pushed into the center and painter’s tape and plastic covering everything.

But all he can see is his little Belle looking positively  _seductive_  in her red lace bra and matching knickers as she stands there grinning at him with a line of purple paint drawn across her cheek.

Actually, now that he looks at her, she’s  _covered_  in purple. It’s smeared all over her hands, it’s dripped onto her bare feet and there’s a smear mark on her leg where she apparently brushed against the wall. Her arms are smeared in it, she’s got flecks of it dried in her hair.

She’s a purple and red lace monster, really.

And she  _grins_  at him, positively radiating happiness and all things good and sweet and perfect.

“I went back to the store and bought paint!” She exclaims, sweeping a hand before the line of paint cans in front of her.

“I couldn’t make up my mind and the store attendant said that painting different patches different colors can help you get an eye for the color. So I did! ‘Riverway’, ‘Sprout’ and ‘Eros Pink’, but after I painted samples on the wall I really didn’t care for any of them.” She explains, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world that she’s standing half naked in their bedroom, painting.

“So I went back and got ‘Fabulous Grape’.” She smirks, clearly very proud of herself. “See, I wanted ‘Fireweed Red’ but  _you said_ you wanted blue. So I met in the middle. Purple.”

And heaven help him if that smile doesn’t make him go weak.

“I see.” He nods curtly, surveying the room and suppressing a grimace. She’s supposed to be the tidy one of the two of them, but even the little hoarder that he is, Gold almost feels physical pain at the abhorrent state of their bedroom.

“Do you like it?” She asks, panic suddenly flickering on her face.

“Oh, I do dearie, believe me, I do.” He assures her, walking a little closer to his purple lace monster. “I’m just curious; why did you paint dragons on the wall?” He asks, motioning to where she’s painted crude representations of the scaled reptilians.

There’s one in pink (that must be what Eros Pink had looked like) and there’s one in green (Sprout, he realizes) and another in a deep blue (Riverway, he surmises). And towering over all of them, taking up almost the entire wall, she’s painted a magnificent purple dragon carrying a cane and wearing what he thinks distinctly resembles a tie.

She shrugs shyly, but she’s grinning from ear to ear as she places a kiss upon his lips and then darts back to the walls, quickly burying her dragons beneath a layer of Fabulous Grape.

“I rather like dragons.” She comments quietly. He nods, setting down his cane and shrugging out of his coat. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and his pants, quickly kicking off his shoes and ripping off his socks.

Then, without a word he picks up a brush and, dipping it carefully in the paint can, he takes up a spot beside her and they both go to work, her humming, him smiling in quiet contentment.

They’ll finish painting later and survey their work proudly. He’ll intentionally paint her other cheek purple and she’ll retaliate by smearing his whole face in it. They’ll wind up in a tangled mess of purple arms and legs and they’ll spend the night on the floor because the bed is rather impossible to reach, obstructed by furniture as it is.

But for now, the old dragon will paint alongside his delicate flower, his purple painted, red lace underwear clad monster,  _his little Belle_.

Fabulous Grape.

 _Very inviting_. Perfect for their bedroom. 


End file.
